


Homecoming

by Tintinnabulation_of_the_Bells



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Family Drama, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Homophobia, M/M, Meet the Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 14:45:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13883064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tintinnabulation_of_the_Bells/pseuds/Tintinnabulation_of_the_Bells
Summary: Each December, Justin brings Holster home for Christmas. Each time, it means something new.





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> So I've had this sitting in drafts for ages, but I'm finally just putting it out there. This began initially as two separate ideas: one was a sort of "5 reasons Ransom loves Holster" thing and the other was based off of the Thanksgiving episode of Master of None. What came out was this fic, which is neither wholly one nor the other but its own creature. I hope you enjoy!

_December 2012_

“What are you, _nuts_?!”

 

“No, Holtzy, if you could just—

 

“OUT OF MY WAY, ASSHOLE!”

 

“Holster, Holster, that is a sixteen year old girl!”

 

They’re fifteen minutes from Justin’s house in Toroto, fifteen minutes from the end of what has been a long, long road trip from western Mass through the backwoods of western New York and all the way to the province of Ontario. They’d left sufficiently early, he thought, but after some unexpected snow halfway through, their eight hour trip was approaching ten hours. And now, fifteen minutes from the end of the line (and the end of Holster’s temper), they have encountered a student-driver.

 

“I don’t give a fuck if she’s a student driver. There wasn’t a fucking stop sign there! Why would you stop like that?” screeches Holster.

 

“Hey, man, she’s moving, so let’s just keep going. She’ll probably turn off soon anyways.”

 

As it turns out, said student-driver has no intention of turning off. She continues her slow march of ineptitude along suburban Toronto roads, at least ten kilometers-per-hour below the speed limit, and Justin can hear Holster grinding his teeth as Bertha (Holster’s name idea, not his) begins her controlled deceleration for the next stop sign at least a half-kilometer in advance.

 

“We’re almost there, Holtzy,” he says. “And then I promise you my mom’s food will make this whole trip worth it.” He leans back against the seat. “I’m sure you two will get along great. She cooks way too much, and you’re probably one of like, two people I’ve met who could possibly eat all her food.”

 

In truth, he’s still desperately hoping that everything will go smoothly. When his mother told him at the beginning of the semester that he should feel free to bring someone special home for the holidays, she’d probably envisioned a well-mannered, well-spoken, intelligent young woman. Instead, he’s carting over 220 pounds of loud, cantankerous, male hockey player across the border. He has no reason to believe Holster will behave inappropriately or rudely, but still…it feels critical that Holster and his family get along. Even after only a few months of friendship, Holster is one of the most important people in his life.

 

“Fucking Canadians,” mutters Holster as Bertha swerves in her lane, and Justin lets him have that. They’d switched off driving at various points, but they were driving Holster’s car, and he’d driven more than two thirds of the time.

 

A mile from their destination, Bertha turns away, and the rest of the trip is over in two minutes.

 

The dark obscures most of the details of Justin’s, and the December air blasts him like a cold furnace as he steps outside, but he’s home, finally, and he breathes out a sigh of relief which fogs into the air. For a moment, he stands on the driveway, allowing the fresh breeze to flow through his nostrils and into his lungs

 

“Yo, Rans, you coming?” says Holster, who’s already shouldered two duffle bags and has another one in his hand. “Those French fries were like three hours ago, and I’m starved.”

 

It’s weird to step back inside his house after more than four months’ absence, but then his mom is engulfing him in a hug, and all hesitation disappears.

 

“Justin!” she exclaims. “Oh, honey, I’ve missed you.”

 

“Missed you too, mom,” he mumbles into her shoulder, squeezing her back. Eventually she releases him and sets her sights on Holster.

 

“Oh, Adam, it’s so good to finally meet you,” she says, and doesn’t hesitate to wrap him in an embrace as well. Holster wisely drops the duffel bags and accepts what is being offered. Justin’s mom’s hair barely tickles the underside of Holster’s chin, and his arms could probably hold two of her, easily.

 

“It’s good to meet you too, Mrs. Oluransi,” he says. When she pulls away, he’s beaming.

 

“Please, call me Joy,” she says. “We’ve heard so much about you, it feels like we already know you.”

 

“Oh have you?” says Holster, and he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. Justin rolls his eyes.

 

“Yes, and we’re so excited to have you for Christmas,” she says. “Justin tells me you’re Jewish, so you don’t normally celebrate Christmas, is that right? Because I would hate to be denying your poor parents of the holidays with their son, and I also don’t want to force you into anything you’re not comfortable with…”

 

“No Christmas at the Birkholtz’s,” Holster says. “But when I was doing juniors in Waterloo, my billets family did Christmas, though, so I’ve had the full experience. Plus, you know, Christmas is kind of an omnipresent force in every mall, store, and radio station. I feel plenty festive.”

 

“Well that’s good to hear,” says his mom. “And I’m sure Juster-buster can fill you in on anything you might need to know.”

 

Holster might not celebrate Christmas, but it definitely just came early this year, because his entire face lights up like the fucking Christmas tree in the other room.

 

“Oh yes,” says Holster. “I’ll be sure to ask _Juster-buster_ anything I need to know.”

 

Justin lets himself slide into one of their rickety old kitchen chairs, head in hands. It’s going to be a long vacation.”

 

There are perks, though.

 

It might be superficial, but Justin really appreciates Holster’s size, especially surrounded by his family. Quite frankly, he’s not sure how he ended up being the giant in his family; his mother is five-foot five, and his father is five-foot nine, neither of which is especially tall. His older sister is five-three. One of his uncles is an inch taller than him, but he’s not even a blood relation. Either way, he’s always standing in the back of family photos, dwarfing nearly everyone else.

 

Other people see Holster and think, wow, that man is huge. Justin sees Holster and thinks, wow, for once he won’t have to stand out. It’s not just the height—Holster is, for lack of a better term, broad. Broad shoulders, broad chest, thighs like tree trunks (not, you know redwood-sized, but definitely a mid-sized young pine tree), he just takes up space, doesn’t wait to see if anyone else will fill it. Justin appreciates that about him too, this self-confidence he possesses. He’s seen pictures of Holster’s family, and while Holster is definitely the largest, even taller than his dad, he always seems comfortable in his own skin.

 

Holster stands next to him, drying dishes as Justin finishes washing them after dinner, and somehow Justin feels firmly at home.

 

He is a little concerned about the sleeping situation.

 

“So, uh, we have an air mattress,” says Justin later that evening. They’d just finished a solid Mario Kart session (with only five insults to his character and two elbows to the side, so relatively tame). “It’s been through the ringer, but we patched it up pretty good, so it should work. Might be a little short for you.”

 

“Swawesome,” says Holster, shrugs off any concern about size, and heads off to the bathroom to prepare for bed. Justin pumps up the mattress full of air, covers it with a sheet, and then starts his own nightly routine.

 

“Dude,” says Holster, emerging from the bathroom with his face still damp and his eyes reddened beneath his glasses. “You had terrible taste in cologne in high school.”

 

Justin gapes at him. “Since when do you know anything about cologne?”

 

“In juniors, one of the assistant coaches had like this come-to-Jesus talk, except it was more like come-to-personal-hygiene. And then he took us all shopping at the Waterloo mall, which let me tell you, is not the cultural hub you want it to be.” He plops on the air mattress, begins stripping himself of his shirt unceremoniously. “So I know when someone has bad taste in cologne.”

 

“Well, some of that stuff is old,” he says, feeling the need to defend himself. Like he would take any advice about fashion or style from Adam Birkholtz, whose usual wardrobe most closely resembles that of Bill Bellichek. “I took most of my good stuff to school.”

 

“And you didn’t bring it back?”

 

“Who would I be trying to impress here? You? My mom?”

 

Holster glares at him. “Quite frankly, I’m offended you don’t feel I’m worth it.”

 

“Man, I’ve smelled your jock strap.”

 

“When?”

 

“Since you threw it at my face!” exclaims Justin, bouncing himself from the bed to standing.

 

Holster half-chuckles to himself, rubbing his glasses clean on the hem of a shirt hanging loose from his duffle bag. “Fair enough. You saying you don’t like the smell of my junk?”

 

“Yes,” says Justin. “And definitely not after you’ve been playing hockey for hours.”

 

“I still say it’s your loss,” says Holster, and Justin throws a sock at him, which only makes Holster laugh, even as he scampers away to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

 

They’re both tired from the drive, so not long after lights the lights are out, Justin finds himself drifting between this world and the dream-world. For once, no thoughts of tests or quizzes or p-sets or anything remotely school related hamper his rest, there’s no annoying roommate typing away on his laptop at four-fucking-am and he’s home in his own bed, and he thinks this might be the best sleep he’s gotten in months.

 

Then the hissing begins. At first he thinks it might originate from the heater, but he knows the sounds of his own house, even after a few months away. Then he thinks there might be a snake under his bed, which is both terrifying and entirely improbably. The next possible conclusion is decidedly human.

 

“Dude, are you whistling in your sleep?” he whisper-shouts at the blanked-bundled lump just off the side of his bed. “Please tell me you’re not.” Another possibility springs to mind. “You’re not…not farting, are you?”

 

“No, I am not,” replies Holster indignantly. “What the hell man?”

 

“What’s that sound then?” he hisses.

 

They listen in silence for nearly a minute Somewhere outside, a distant clang rings out from the neighborhood, but it’s clearly distinct from the hissing. Eventually, Holster breaks the hush. “How well did you say this air mattress was patched up? Cause there’s a solid chance I might be sinking.”

 

Shit, the air mattress. Of course. “Not well enough to hold your giant ass,” he mumbles.

 

“Oh, please, like you’re one to talk.”

 

“I’m not the one who broke it!”

 

“Whatever. Doesn’t change the fact that there is about to be zero padding between my back and the floor.” Justin hears Holster shift around, and the intensity of the hissing increases. He supposes he could try to fix the mattress with another layer of duct tape, but then he would have to blow up the mattress again, and there would still be no guarantee that the latest patch would hold Holster’s considerable size. Leaving Holster on the floor certainly isn’t an option, and neither is sending him off the couch, where his parents’ morning routine (beginning at 5:30 AM) is sure to disturb his slumber.

 

That really leaves one option. “Come one up to the bed.”

 

He hears Holster’s sharp inhale. Then: “You don’t need to do that. I’ll be fine here. Or I can hit the couch.”

 

Justin sighs. “I’m not sending you out to couch only for my dad’s coffee time to wake you up at some ungodly hour. Come up to the bed.”

 

“Really, I’ll be fine.”

 

“Come up to the bed, Holster!” he says tightly. “I mean, dude, you don’t have to worry. It’s a full-size bed. There’s room.” When Holster’s palpable hesitation persists, he continues, “Please, Holtzy. Don’t make me feel like shit for having you sleep on the floor.”

 

“Well, when you put like that,” mutters Holster, and then there’s some shuffling, a sharp spike in the hissing, and he can just perceive Holster’s silhouette from the light streaming through the crack in his bedroom door. “Do you, I don’t know, want to put on a shirt? You know, cause there is room but I’m sort of a big guy and it’ll be hard to avoid—

 

“Just get in the goddamn bed!” And wow, that’s definitely the least sexy way that phrase has ever been said. Not that it should be sexy, but still. Not how he envisioned inviting someone to his childhood bed.

 

“Bossy, jeez,” says Holster, but finally, at long last, he climbs into the space Justin has left for him, occupying every inch of the void. He was right too—there’s no avoiding contact, not when there are two gargantuan hockey players sharing a full-sized bed. Holster’s arm presses against his, and their ankles knock into each other, but overall, it’s not uncomfortable. Holster radiates heat like a furnace, burning off the mass quantities of food he always manages to consume, Justin assumes.

 

“You sure about this?” mutters Holster. Something—a pillow, a comforter—muffles his voice, creating the illusion of uncertainty. And it must be an illusion, because Justin knows Holster, and he knows that Holster doesn’t deal in uncertainties. He deals in _now_ and _need_ and never in _perhaps_.

 

So Justin throws an elbow back at Holster’s torso, and Holster yelps but then laughs. “Yeah, okay, Rans. I got it.”

 

Holster’s breathing evens out not five minutes later, and Justin follows his lead shortly thereafter.

 

 

He awakens to a knock on the door. The sound slips through his ears and into his brain before any other sensation, and he murmurs a quick, “who is it?” before either sight or true conscious awareness can penetrate his mind.

 

The door swings open. “It’s half past ten, and, oh—Justin, Adam, I didn’t realize.”

 

Fuck. His mother. And the two of them are practically spooning, with Holster doing his best octopus impression halfway through the night.

 

“Mom, just, uh, just give me a sec here,” he says, now fully, unfortunately awake. “A shirt, something.”

 

The door slams.

 

He clambers over Holster’s oversized body (Holster only grunts in response to being trampled), throws on a tank-top which may or may not be from the clean section of his duffle bag, and scampers out into the sunlight.

 

His mother is in kitchen, the scent of cinnamon rolls wafting delightfully around her like a olfactorial halo. She doesn’t smile when she sees him, though.

 

“You said, Justin, you said that he—that Adam was just a friend.”

 

“He is just a friend,” says Justin, scuffing his feet along the floor. The cold tile leeches heat from his skin. He should have worn socks.

 

“Don’t lie to me, young man,” she says. “You know we have rules in this house, rules about guests, and you sneaking around with that man—

 

“Mom!”

 

“I wasn’t born yesterday, I know what’s going on here, and I won’t stand for it, not in this house. My own son, thinking he can go off to college for a semester and start lying to me.”

 

“Mom!”

 

“And for you to deny it to my face, like I’m some ignorant fool who can be tricked…well, they don’t teach you everything in college, Justin! I should have known better than to send you to Samwell—

 

“He’s just a friend, mom, please! Listen to me!” he exclaims. His mother widens her eyes, but remains silent. “Look, the air mattress broke last night, and I didn’t want to stick him out on the couch so Dad could wake him up at dawn. So we’re sharing a bed. But that’s it. I promise you, I’m not lying. I’m not—we’re not—neither of us is gay, okay?”

 

“Oh,” she says. She retrieves a cup of coffee from by the sink, takes a delicate sip, and in her bathrobe, with none of the previous fire and vigor which she’d displayed not ten second ago, she says, “Good. Then that’s settled.”

 

“Yes, it’s settled,” he says. When he meets her eyes, though, there’s still something calculating in her gaze.

 

“Well, in that case, you can tell Adam when he wakes up that I made cinnamon rolls. I had to fight Mrs. Hayward at church for the recipe too.”

 

“I’ll let him know,” he says.

 

When he returns to the bedroom, Holster barely twitches. Justin perches on the edge of the bed, his hands held restlessly in his lap.

 

Holster is huge, but standing next to him, Justin has never felt small the way he does now.

 

 

 

_December 2013_

 

When they first moved in together, Justin somehow expected Holster to be louder. Which isn’t to say that Holster isn’t loud (he is, full stop), but he expected constant noise and exuberance and full-throated singing in the shower every morning, habits which would drive him up a wall but which he would slowly learn to accept as a natural part of their friendship.

 

But for someone who has spent up to 40% of a roadie bus ride working his way through the repertoire of cheesy eighties power ballads (Foreigner being the most egregious of them all) Holster doesn’t actually burst into song on a regular basis. He always has a song ready to whip out for a given occasion, but spontaneous eruptions of music with his loud, booming bass are relatively rare.

 

Holster spends much of the drive to Toronto tapping on the steering wheel and humming along to his carefully curated road trip playlist. Justin alternates between a steady stream of jokes and entertainment and napping—finals have left him exhausted, and with the end-of-semester kegster still lingering in his body, staying awake is more difficult than it ought to be. Fortunately, Holster prefers driving himself to having someone else take control over his car, meaning that he’s fine with spending the majority of time at the wheel.

 

This year, Holster doesn’t bother fighting Justin’s suggestion about sharing the bed again, instead preferring to collapse into a heap on the mattress the second he’s finished brushing his teeth. His mother doesn’t remark on anything when she sees that the two of them are clearly sharing a bed, and Justin’s grateful. He’s still not sure what to make of last year’s conversation, but he knows a repeat is low on his Christmas wish list.

 

Christmas passes without too much hassle. Holster has decided to linger a few days after, even after Justin’s parents have both returned to work and his sister has returned back to school. They have the house to themselves for most of the day, which mostly means video games and binging TV shows and hockey and the occasional journey out to Toronto to see the sights (though it’s still weird to think of Toronto as “the sights.”).

 

Justin goes out for a run one morning. Holster begs off, citing a sore ankle. Justin half-believes him, but he’s not going to push it. Holster works out plenty, and Justin knows he despises running.

 

The brisk Canadian winter leaves him shivering despite the exertion, and he can’t feel his cheeks by the time he returns nearly an hour later. He tucks his hands in his armpits, seeking warmth, and pushes open the door with his feet.

 

A wall of sound assaults him.

 

Holster’s booming bass voice travels easily through the house, reaching the foyer from somewhere in the kitchen easily. Justin doesn’t recognize the song, but it sounds vaguely like a showtune to his inexperienced ears. He stands in the foyer, just listening until Holster finishes the song and promptly launches into another one, this time something he recognizes. And Journey? Really? Justin needs a friend with better music taste.

 

But not a friend with a better voice. Justin knows he Holster can sing, but to hear him sing without any attempt at humor or holding back, without performing for anyone but himself? He might not have perfect pitch like Holster, but even he can hear the difference.

 

He tiptoes into the kitchen to find Holster leaning against the counter, half-heartedly stirring away at a pot of something, soup perhaps. He’s half-closed his eyes beneath his glasses, his hair swoops softly across his forehead, and his expression is that of complete serenity.

 

For a second, Justin loses his breath.

 

Then Holster opens his eyes, spies him watching and pauses in his singing.

 

“Sorry, uh, didn’t realize you were back,” says Holster hastily, crossing his eyes.

 

Justin still needs to shake himself loose from his reverie. He bounces on his feet, cracks out a crick in his neck. “You don’t need to stop on my account.”

 

Holster’s face twists into a grimace. “You say that now…”

 

Huh? Justin feels like he’s missing something here. “Uh, yeah, I do. Dude, you have a good voice. I don’t mind listening. Kind of enjoy it, actually. You should do it more often.”

 

“Really?” The genuine shock crossing Holster’s face surprises him.

 

“Yeah, really. You clearly enjoy it, I don’t mind it. Like, do what makes you happy.” He tilts his head. “In fact, I kind of expected you to do it a little more when we moved in, based on your previous habits.”

 

“Yeah, well.” Holster rubs the back of his neck, and…is he blushing? “I tried to keep that to a minimum around you.”

 

Justin halts his bouncing, stops to truly examine Holster. Holster’s face betrays none of the usual signs of lying (he’s a genuinely terrible liar and besides, why would he in this situation?), and he seems truly sincere. None of it makes any sense. Holster doesn’t care what people think about him, that much he knows to be true. So why would he alter his behavior so much around him?

 

When he voices his question, the flush across Holster’s cheeks spreads to his neck. He mumbles something indiscernible, something Justin has to strain to make out.

 

“What was that?”

 

Holster clears his throat. “I wanted you to like living with me.” The tomato-paste tinge has reached his ears. “I didn’t want you to get sick of me, decide you’d rather live somewhere else. So I try not to annoy you to death by singing all the time.”

 

Justin gapes at him. “You thought…you thought I wouldn’t like living with you?”

 

“Dude, my freshman year roommate filed a complaint with our RA, transferred rooms midway through the year. Said I was too fucking loud.” He snorts. “He was also a real douche who didn’t know how to do his own laundry, but whatever. I care a lot more about your opinion than his.”

 

It isn’t the stupidest thing Justin’s ever heard (that title definitely belongs to a couple of teammates from high school who really had no idea how female anatomy worked), but it’s not far off. Him, sick of Holster? The friend he spends half his day in talking to, the friend he’s invited twice to Toronto for Christmas? “What the hell?” is all he can say.

 

Holster shirks back. “Sorry, man.”

 

“No, you don’t—you don’t fucking apologize.” Holster flinches.  “Man, I am never going to be sick of you, all right? And if I’m stressed or tired and need you to shut up, I will tell you. More likely you’ll be able to tell. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not very subtle about it.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Right, but just…Holster you don’t have to worry about that shit. You’re my best friend, and I’m pretty sure I’m yours as well. Would you ever get sick of me?”

 

Holster looks aghast. “Of course not.”

 

“Right, so I’m not going to get sick of you. And if I ever need some space, then I’ll tell you. Promise.” He strides over to Holster, grips Holster’s chin to force eye contact. “Understand?”

 

Holster nods.

 

Justin releases him. “Then we’re good. And sing or don’t sing, but don’t worry about me wanting to move out or something equally ridiculous.” He shakes his head. “God, hockey players are idiots.”

 

“Rans…”

 

“Yes, I know, I’m including myself there too.”

 

“Rans, I…” Holster stares at him in wonderment, like the sun shines directly out of Justin’s ass. Justin’s not sure what to do with it, so he plasters on a wry grin.

 

“Just try to branch out every from the eighties every now and again. I can only take so much Kenny Loggins.”

 

Holster engulfs him in a hug, and Justin feels it from his toes through the tips of his hair. He feels the pressure of Holster’s solid weight, his firm muscles, his raspy brush of stubble against soft cheek. He feels Holster’s deep bass rumble through his chest like a motor as he mutters something under his breath.

 

“What was that?”

 

Holster pulls away, regards Justin with naked, fond, disgust. “I said, you stink. And you really need a shower.”

 

Justin swats at Holster’s shoulder. “Whatever, man. You’re burning your soup.”

 

Holster swears, turns his attention to the soup which is indeed emitting a decidedly scorched aroma. Justin laughs as he retreats down the hall and towards the shower. As he strips himself of his sweaty layer, he hears the echoes of Holster’s voice throughout the house, belting something which is definitely not from the eighties.

 

“If ever I would leave you, it wouldn’t be in summer…”

 

Holster is large and loud and the best friend he’s ever had and…maybe, maybe he’s something else. There’s something about him, something he can’t quite pin down.

 

But they have all the time in the world to figure it out.

 

 

 

_December 2014_

 

They’re deep enough into their friendship where they can acknowledge each other’s flaws, unequivocally, without any damage to their friendship. Holster knows that Justin is more than a little vain (if he didn’t, the piles of product and his tendency to spend more of his disposable income than necessary on clothes should have been a tip off), and Justin knows that Holster doesn’t actually like most people. Not in an introverted “I hate people” sort of way, but he’s heard Holster complain (loudly and often) enough about various members of the hockey team and professors and other mutual acquaintances to recognize the genuine disdain with which he views most of the world. Even with some of their friends on the team, Justin’s not sure Holster truly likes them independent of their role on the team and in the team’s culture. Holster respected Jack well enough as a hockey captain, enjoyed his presence and adored mocking his pop culture ineptitude, but Justin’s only about 70% certain Holster actually _likes_ Jack beyond what the circumstances dictate.

 

When he does like someone, though, it is because they are his. Bitty is his little hockey protégé. Shitty is his Haus mentor. Lardo is his pong-partner and bro-partner in crime for when Justin’s moral compass kicks in too strong. Justin is…his best friend, his partner, his…

 

To be honest, Justin’s not sure he knows what he is in Holster’s mind, but he knows that Holster believes he is _his_.

                                                                                                            

He just wishes he knew what role Holster was thinking of right now.

 

He and Holster both stand in Justin’s childhood room, the bed in the corner like a canyon, a gash in the middle of their relationship and his comfort zone. For once, they hadn’t shared the journey home from Samwell—Holster needed to travel to Virginia for a cousin’s wedding—but now that they have reunited, they need to confront some things.

 

Or at least, Justin does. Holster just flops across the bed, sprawling his large limbs across the bed like a blonde, blind starfish.

 

“You coming to bed, Rans?” mumbles Holster, his face already half-consumed by pillows.

 

“Yeah, of course I was, I just…” Justin bites his bottom lip, chews at it a moment. “Are we still doing this?”

 

“Sleeping? I should hope so.”

 

“Not sleeping, but well…sleeping together. Are we still doing this?”

 

Holster levers his body off the pillow, leaving an imprint of comforter smooshed against his right cheek as he rests his chin on his elbow. His hair is spiked like a dandelion, and without contacts or glasses, Justin knows that Holster is seeing more brown-blur than any coherent face at the moment. Still, they make clear, certain eye-contact.

 

“In what way? Sleeping together like passing the fuck out in the same general proximity, or sleeping together like sex?”

 

“Both?” Because in his mind, the two are inextricably linked. Two-and-a-half weeks ago, a week before the semester finished, Justin and Holster had finally consummated whatever the fuck their relationship was. Friendship, certainly. Best friends. Beyond, that, he wasn’t sure. But they had slept together, had _known_ each other in the biblical sense (except not in the biblical sense, because fuck that and fuck his fifth grade Sunday school teacher), and now he wasn’t sure he could just, well, sleep with Holster. Was this something people came back from?

 

“In response to the first definition, I’d really prefer not to take the couch, and unless you feel like giving that old air mattress a second go around, I think I’ll just stay here,” says Holster, rubbing his eyes. He makes eye contact again. “As for the second, that kind of depends on what you want.”

 

“What do you want though?”

 

Holster rolls his eyes. “Look, you know me. I’m not one to turn down sex. But if the whole childhood bedroom thing freaks you out, I get it. Sometimes it’s too much and—

 

“Is that what you think the problem is?” Justin’s still processing Holster’s tone, his entirely too nonchalant approach to this situation. They had _slept_ together. More than that, Justin had slept with another man.

 

“What, is it something else?” asks Holster, and incredibly, he seems sincere in his confusion.

 

“Yes!” he sputters, then softens his voice. “Yes, of course, it’s just…how are you not freaking out right now? We had sex! Us, the two of use, two…”

 

“Two men?” ventures Holster, and the tight head jerk Justin gives is response enough. “You know, I didn’t peg you as the type to have a conniption fit over something like this.”

 

“Well, excuse me for freaking out a little over the fact that I might not be entirely straight, a fact I have barely considered during my first twenty-one years of existence. And excuse the fuck out of me for needing to process having sex with a dude for the first time.”

 

Holster straightens up in bed, fully sitting now. His tank top reveals every centimeter of broad, exposed muscle on his upper body; none of those muscles are moving.

 

“That was your first time with a man?” repeats Holster, slowly, like his hearing is just as foggy as his vision.

 

“Was it not yours?”

 

Holster shakes his head. “I thought we’d been over this before. That guy I said I used to fuck around with back in juniors? Brady? I was actually fucking around with him. Or fucking him, to be more exact.” Holster squints. “Did you really not know this?”

 

“No!” he exclaims, then says, hushing his voice, “No, I did not. I thought, I thought you meant you would screw _with_ each other. Pranks and shit.”

 

Holster cocks his head. “Well, there was definitely screwing. We kept it on the DL, though. Wasn’t really sure how my billets family would have felt about it.” The brows on Holster’s face converge into a sharp, blonde V. “Is that all you’re freaking out about? And Rans, you should really sit down. Like, I promise I won’t jump you the moment you touch the bed.”

 

Justin assumes his place gingerly along the bed, presses his back against the pillow. His legs parallel Holster’s, and the centimeters between their bodies echo like caverns. He can still feel Holster’s body heat; the man truly had been bred to live in Buffalo and other cold climes.

 

“Are you done freaking out?” asks Holster.

 

“Maybe.” It’s an honest answer.

 

“Okay, then let me ask you another question. What do you want?”

 

“Huh?”

 

Holster rolls his eyes, like this should be obvious. Maybe it should be. “What do you want, Rans? Do you want to sleep with me again?”

 

“Of course.” Shit, he said that way too fast. Time to backtrack. “I mean, like, it was sex, and you were…pretty good…and like, yeah. Who wouldn’t want to do that again, I guess is what I’m trying to say. But like, only if you also want to, of course.”

 

God, he sounds unsexy. He always teases Holster about having no game, and yet here he is, acting like a prepubescent boy asking the girl he “like-likes” out to the sixth-grade social so they can awkwardly sway from side-to-side as R. Kelly blasts out the shitty middle school speakers.

 

Anyways. Holster is actually laughing, full-bodied, full-throated laughing at him, which Justin does not appreciate. Holster has no right to mockery, not after Justin’s seen his attempts at pick-up lines.

 

“Then what are we waiting for?” asks Holster, leaning his body against Justin’s, closing that cavernous gap with one easy leap.

 

“What are we waiting for? You mean—like now?” For once in his life, he’s the one scrambling to catch up with the situation.

 

“Uh, yeah. Did you plan on non-sexually sleeping next to me for the next four days? I kind of figured we could just get a move on things.” Holster blinks at him deliberately, perhaps in an attempt at flirtation. He lowers his voice; his breath skims Justin’s neck. “Unless you had other plans for tonight.”

 

Justin gulps, trying to swallow the sudden moisture flooding his mouth. His whole body shivers, responding to Holster and his sexy voice, despite the ridiculous line and the even more ridiculous situation. He ought to be laughing; instead, he’s barely keeping his body under control.

 

And it’s not just desire flooding his body. A tinge of fear clouds his thoughts, even as Holster moves to kiss his neck.

 

“We’ve got to be careful,” he whispers. “My parents…”

 

“I know the drill,” says Holster, snickering. “What, you think this is my first time hooking up in someone’s house?” He nibbles at the juncture of collarbone and neck.

 

Justin gasps. “No, please, we have to be careful.” He pulls away, forces Holster to meet his gaze directly. “I don’t know how my parents would react to this. To any of this.”

 

A shadow crosses Holster’s face, but he nods seriously. “Got it. Just gonna have to be quiet then.”

 

And before Justin can respond, Holster kisses him, full throttle. Justin doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around Holster’s neck and pull him closer, pull them down to bed, where he manages to straddles Holster before being flipped over himself and surrendering to the touches of his best friend.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of his poster of the Tragically Hip, of the hockey cards he collected in his childhood, of his family embracing him after middle school graduation. He sees these things, and sees Holster, whose expressive blue eyes and downy blonde hair and taut muscles are everything he never knew he wanted when he last lived in this house, and he feels like a stranger in his own life.

 

He’s still not sure how Holster sees him—best friend, partner, whatever the hell they’re doing right now—but right now, Justin sees _only_ him, and he thinks he understands.

 

 

 

_December 2015_

 

Senior year, he brings Holster home. He’s brought Holster home before, and Holster’s met his parents, they love each other, but this year, he’s bringing Holster home to meet the parents in a whole new way.

 

He and Holster finally got their shit together sometime around his birthday last year and have begun dating. Not even just casually “seeing each other” or “hooking up,” but full-blown dating. Like flowers and dinner-dates and even a moonlit walk on the beach over the summer, where Holster slipped into the water and emerged looking so absurd that Justin just had to dive in after him. The kind of dating where his heart has learned to tap dance along to the showtunes Holster so loves to play.

 

Justin is thoroughly in love, and whatever hesitations he originally held about Holster’s gender, he can barely remember them now.

 

He’s just hoping that his parents will be as understanding.

 

He makes it to Christmas Eve before the secret weighs too heavily on his tongue to remain trapped inside his mouth any longer. And it ought to be a good time to talk; the whole family is fresh from Christmas Eve services and sermons about accepting neighbors and strangers alike. Holster has volunteered to help with the pot roast and the pies tomorrow, much to the delight of Justin’s mom. And Justin is still flush with the news of an interview with Harvard Medical School.

 

There’s never going to be a better time, he thinks. And he wants to hold nothing back when he presents Holster with his Christmas present tomorrow.

 

“Mom?” he says, seeing her soft figure in the kitchen. His father has already dozed off, knowing him, but his mother usually reads a magazine or a mystery novel for an hour before bed, accompanied by her usual cup of tea. The kettle steams off to the side.

 

His mother turns. “Yes, dear?”

 

“Mom, there’s something I need to tell you.”

 

His mom nods towards to the kitchen counter. “Why don’t you sit? I’ll make you a cup of tea as well.”

 

He perches on one of the stools, swallowing hard around the sudden aridity in his throat. He might require that tea now if he wants to be able to speak.

 

“Lemongrass,” she says, pouring blistering water into the tiger mug, the one purchased at the zoo almost fifteen years ago and the one he used to pretend to drink coffee out of when he was younger, trying to imitate his father.

 

“Thanks, mom,” he says, his voice already hoarse.

 

She catches on to his crack. “Justin, are you okay? Is everything alright?” She narrows her eyes. “Is someone pregnant?”

 

He chokes on his first sip of tea. “What? No, God no, no one’s…no one’s pregnant. Jesus, fuck no. Sorry,” he says, when her frown deepens at his language.”

 

“Hmph. Then whatever it is, I’m sure it’s nothing we can’t handle.”

 

He takes another gulp of tea, for fortitude. “Mom, I just…you know, this is just hard…you like Holster, right? Adam?”

 

The lines crinkle around her eyes. “Of course, honey. You know we love Adam—you know, if he’s in some trouble, we can help him out as well.”

 

“No, no, no one’s in trouble,” he exclaims forcefully, a little too forcefully. He inhales and exhales a shaky breath. “No, it’s just—Adam and I are dating. Romantically.”

 

High above their heads, the ceiling fan whirrs loudly, scattering the steam rising from both their mugs. The radio echoes from down the hall, dimly, as if from a different time. The scent of lemongrass suffuses the air, drowning out the whiff of marinating meat from meal preparations earlier in the evening.

 

His mother says nothing.

 

“Mom? Do you understand?”

 

“Do I understand?” she says, her voice low. She shakes her head, soft curls bouncing around her head. “Do I understand? You just said you and…and another man are dating. That you’re gay.”

 

“I’m not gay.”

 

“No?”

 

“No, I’m…I’m bisexual. I also like women as well. I’ve dated girls in the past.”

 

“Then why aren’t you dating one now?” Her voice slices through the air, like skate blades, like the swish of Bitty’s knife.

 

“Because I’m dating Adam. It’s not about men or women. It’s about him.”

 

She shakes her head again. “Not about men,” she scoffs.

 

“It’s not! Sure, he is a man, but that’s not why I’m dating him. I’m dating him because of who he is.” She eyes him skeptically. “I’m dating him because I love him. Not men, not women, him.”

 

“And what are you going to do, marry him?”

 

“Maybe.” He meets her challenging gaze. “I don’t know. It’s been less than a year, but right now, honestly, if he asked me, there’s a non-zero chance I’d say yes.”

 

His mom plants her hands firmly on the countertop, tea now long forgotten. Her chin trembles minutely in the shadows, but Justin knows how hard she’s fighting to hold back something more explosive. They’re just like each other, he and his mom. Both are a dam, a veritable cistern waiting for just the right blow to crack wide open. Her mouth twists into fury, into a deep sadness which somehow hurts even more than the anger.

 

“Justin Oluransi, you are not doing this to me right now.”

 

“I’m not doing anything to you. I’m just telling you what’s going on in my life.”

 

“Don’t lie to me,” she hisses. “You’ve been lying to me for months, I can tell. And you knew what this would do to me and your father. Oh God, you are not going to tell your father this.”

 

“I’m not?”

 

“You’re not, because you are not going to have anything to tell! Because you will not be dating another man in this house! What would we ever tell people?”

 

“I don’t know, the truth?” His voice echoes loudly around the kitchen. If he’s not careful, his dad might find out regardless of his mother’s wishes. “This is Canada, mom, my high school had a gay-straight alliance. No one’s going to care.”

 

“No one?” Hands migrate to her hips, planted just as firmly there. “Not a single person? Think of everyone at church! Of the neighbors!” She lowers her voice to a fine hiss, not unlike that of the air mattress. “Of your grandparents! People didn’t do stuff like this back in their day.”

 

“Yes, they did,” he says. “And they do now, because it’s everywhere, even if people choose not to see it. And you should be happy we live in a place where it doesn’t have to matter.”

 

“Happy? Maybe if we lived somewhere else you would have just found a nice girl and stuck with her! I should have known the moment you brought Adam home, but he was such a nice boy, and you swore, you _swore_ to me that you were just friends.”

 

“We were, mom, we were. But then things changed. I fell in love.” He’s pleading now, with his voice, with his expression, with his very soul. “I can’t not love him. I’d sooner stop breathing, stop being me.”

 

“Don’t be absurd.” She raises her hands. “One of these days, you’re going to wake up, realize how foolish you’ve been. And then you’ll stop being so melodramatic.”

 

“I’ve woken up next to him a hundred times,” he says, and he hopes the sheer honesty in his voice might persuade her. “It’s never felt anything but right.”

 

“You’re twenty-one. What would you know about love?”

 

“You were younger when you married Dad!”

 

“Younger, but wiser. We had to grow up faster.”

 

“I know what I am!” He’s truly yelling now. “And even if I weren’t with Holster, I’d still be me. Still be bisexual. That’s not going to fucking change even if I wake up tomorrow and Adam Birkholtz never existed.”

 

“Language, Justin!”

 

“I’ll watch my language when you wake up and realize what’s fucking going on!” He’s fuming now, breath coming in short, sharp pants. “When you respect me.”

 

“We gave up everything for you, coming here,” she spits. “Don’t talk to me about respect. We raised you!”  


“I can be grateful, and you can still be wrong.” It feels final, somehow, this matter-of-fact statement. “Sacrificing for me doesn’t mean you can control my life.”

 

“I am your mother!”

 

“And I’m twenty-one! Which means I don’t have to do what you say.”

 

“Under this roof, you do.”

 

“Fine.” He snaps his jaw shut. “Fine. Under this roof, you can say whatever you want. It’s a goddamn good thing that I don’t have to stay.”

 

Before she can respond, he’s storming out and into the bedroom.

 

“Pack your stuff,” he tells Holster.

 

“What?” Holster is midway through a stretching routine, dressed only in sweatpants and a ratty Buffalo State hoodie.

 

“We’re leaving. Now.”

 

“We are?” Holster squints at him through his glasses, peering through the light. “Where are we going?”

 

Justin chucks his bag at him. “Doesn’t matter. We just need to go.”

 

Holster opens his wide mouth, and Justin can see the barrage of questions awaiting just beyond the floodgate, but he knows Holster, and he knows what to say.

 

“Adam,” he says. “Adam, if you love me, please, don’t ask questions now. Just follow me. Please.”

 

And Holster shuts up. He stays quiet as Justin stuffs his own belongings back into the suitcase (fortunately not too unpacked from their recent arrival) and remains silent as he trails Justin towards Holster’s car, remains seated while Justin returns inside to tell his mother he won’t be returning back home. Justin’s not sure how much of their argument he can hear, but he refrains from comment when Justin returns.

 

Justin doesn’t know where he’s going, but he just knows that he needs to go far, far away, hours away preferable, and short of driving further into the Northern reaches of Canada, he points them due South, sets the radio to his favorite old college radio station, and drives.

 

And Holster doesn’t say a word, not even when they approach the Canadian border. Neither of them has spoken for the past couple of hours, and Justin needs to croak out his words around the mountainous lump in his throat as the border officer nods to them.

 

“Where are you two boys going at a time like this?”

 

“The U.S.,” he says.

 

The border guard raises an eyebrow. “I should hope so. Anywhere in particular?”

 

“Just…just not here.”

 

The guard, whose weathered face and salt-and-pepper beard suggest a man long suffering at his job, heaves a sigh. “I need a straight answer, son. This isn’t the time to play around.”

 

Straight answer. If only that’s something Justin could provide, to his mother at least. “Look, I was with my family, and this…this is my boyfriend, and I was just trying to tell them about him, not that he existed but that he was my boyfriend, because they know he’s existed, they’ve known about him for years but it just didn’t seem to make one lick of difference because my own mother couldn’t just fucking accept that maybe I—

 

“Son, son, you need to slow down.” The guard glances off to the side, as if searching for potential backups.

 

“Officer,” says Holster, leaning over in the car so that his hair tickles the skin of Justin’s cheeks. “My friend here had an argument with his family, so he’s a bit upset, but I’m from outside of Buffalo and we’re going to see my family. Here.” He holds out his passport. “Justin also goes to school in Massachusetts as well. I assure you, he’s just had a long evening right now.”

 

The guard frowns, but after Holster plies him with several more minutes of calm, placating conversation and explanation, they’re allowed to pass through. The whole time, Justin clenches the steering wheel, breathing in short spurts because the air just won’t seem to stick in his lungs like it should, like it always has.

 

Holster gives him five minutes to cool down from the border before he opens his mouth.

 

“Rans, I know you told me not to talk,” he says, with clear care in his word choice, “but we just crossed an international border at one in the morning and now you’re driving my car on quarter a tank of gas somewhere into western New York in a very cold November, and if we’re not careful, it’s gonna be us, a dead car, and bigfoot feasting on our corpses. So, do you mind telling me where we’re going?”

 

Justin grip on the steering wheel tightens.

 

“Do you know how to get to my place?” asks Holster.

 

The thought of Holster’s parents, of his loving family and his sisters and his little dachshund Peaches, is almost overwhelming. The Birkholtzes know about their relationship (Holster can’t keep anything from his sister Julia, and she in turn leaks information like one of his old, broken school water fountains), but they also know the Oluransis. They know Justin’s family. He’s not sure how they’ll react when the two of them show up days early, in the wee hours of Christmas morning.

 

“I…” he says, then pauses. “I don’t know if I…”

 

“You don’t want to go there?” surmises Holster shrewdly.

 

It’s all he can do to shake his head. This is stupid. They  _have_  a place to stay, people who will accept them fully and boil milk for hot chocolate and swaddle them in blankets, but it’s all too much.

 

“If I tell you know I know where to go, do you want to switch so that I’m driving?”

 

He nods, a quick jerk of his head.

 

They exit the car to switch. He stares in wonderment at the flurries which have begun to swirl around them, dancing delightfully in the headlights of the car, mesmerizing him. He stares until a gentle tug at his coat yanks him back to reality. Holster’s hand lies steady on his back.

 

“Let’s just get to where we need to go,” says Holster, softly, his voice like a snowflake which happens to drift into Justin’s ear. “We’ll deal with the rest then.”

 

Justin clambers back into the car, and then Holster is driving them, the music still set to the same station. Holster’s fingers drum absentmindedly, and Justin keeps his gaze fixed on them, on the little crinkles in his knuckles as they expand and contract with the movement. The occasional light source (streetlamp, or maybe just moonlight) flashes shadows across Holster’s face, but Justin doesn’t look away until suddenly Holster’s face is drenched in a neon glow.

 

The car has also stopped. He realizes that too.

 

Holster meets his gaze, blue eyes gentle. “We’re here.”

 

Here turns out to be a motel, one of those places which emerges into the night and fog with one fluorescent letter flickering and a veneer of impermanence, like it might vanish if you squinted too hard. A liminal space. A placing for coming and going, but not for staying.

 

“I’ll get us a room,” says Holster. Justin follows him into reception area, where Holster approaches the counter. The woman manning the desk twitches when Holster asks for a single queen bed (please, please, not now, he thinks, begs, prays) but hands over the room key readily enough when Holster’s credit card passes muster.

 

The room, when they enter, is threadbare and sparse, but a room, and most importantly, entirely impersonal and devoid of imbued emotion. Holster sets his bags down on the floor, sets his body down on the bed, sets his mask of nonchalance down by the wayside. He opens his arms, and Justin doesn’t hesitate to bury himself in the comfort they offer. His legs curl on the bed as he retreats into Holster’s firm embrace. Holster’s fingers glide along the nape of his neck, tracing his hairline.

 

“Hey, hey, don’t cry,” murmurs Holster.

 

Is he crying? He lifts a hand to his cheeks, meets a warm trail of salt and liquid. He doesn’t remember shedding any tears, but they line his face nonetheless.

 

“I told them about us,” he says. “My mom didn’t take it well.”

 

He feels Holster nod. “I figured out as much.”

 

“Why is it so hard for them to understand?” he whispers, and he tastes the tears now, presses against the lump in his throat. “They always loved you. Why wouldn’t they love me loving you?”

 

“I don’t think it’s about me. Or you. I think it’s about them, and how they’re scared for what it means.”

 

“What is there to be scared of?” he asks.

 

“I don’t know,” admits Holster. “Maybe they just don’t understand? I don’t know, sometimes new things are frightening.”

 

“This isn’t new though.” He tightens his grip on Holster’s forearm. “Gay marriage has been legal in Canada for more than a decade. We have neighbors who are gay.”

 

“A neighbor isn’t their son, and it isn’t the man who comes home for the holidays.” Holster’s hand slides from his neck to his back, to the base of his spine. “I’m not saying it’s right. God knows that’s not true.” A quick inhale of air, then a shaky exhale, followed by a tight, breathy voice. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Justin, always have been, even before we even started this. There’s absolutely nothing that’s wrong about that.”

 

The luminescence from the shitty motel lamp encircles Holster’s head like a halo as Justin gazes up at him. His soft blonde hair glows as he gazes at him with such love and adoration that it, not the light, is blinding.

 

“I don’t deserve you,” he mumbles.

 

Holster narrows his eyes. “Justin, I love you, but that’s the stupidest thing you could have possibly said.” He closes his eyes beneath his glasses. “I’m not religious, but if I were, I’d thank God every fucking day for you. Profanity included.” His eyes flicker open again. “I love you, and you will always be worth it. I just hope you can say the same for me.”

 

And this is (part of) the reason why Justin loves Holster so much. Holster knows all of Justin’s insecurities, his thought processes. He knows what Justin fears, what he loves, what he needs. “Always,” he says, and Holster leans down to kiss him. Despite the heat, the insistence of Holster’s mouth, it’s not sexy. Justin clings to him like a life raft, and Holster obliges by keeping him steady, holding him through the gusts of emotion which billow by him through the night, the urge to scream, to sob, to lie listless and lifeless. Holster holds him as he descends into sleep, and holds him as he surfaces to a cold, strange world the morning after.

 

They check out by noon, and when they arrive at the Birkholtzes a couple hours later, they are greeted with hot cocoa and blankets and endless words of assurance. Holster holds his hand the entire afternoon, and Justin clutches him like an anchor.

 

It’s Christmas morning in Buffalo, and he wonders when he’ll next be home. Or where his home even lies.

 

 

 

 

 

_December 2016_

 

 

“You’re sure you want this?” asks Holster. “We don’t have to do this, if you don’t want.”

 

Justin gulps. “No, this is good. The last time I talked to my mom, she seemed like she wanted to make up for last year. And she always loved you—it was just, you know, took her a while to get used to the new situation.”

 

“Okay,” says Holster, a current of skepticism still running strong through his words. “But if things go south, I can always do what I did at graduation. Or we can run away again.”

 

At graduation, Holster had remained by Justin’s side throughout the entire weekend, wrapped around him like flypaper and forcing them to acknowledge his presence if they wanted to spend any time with their son. He’d used his imposing physical presence to full effect, intimidating even Justin’s father at times. Holster had often been protective on the ice, violently checking people who dared to target Justin or Bitty or one of the other teammates, but Justin had rarely seen that instinct manifested so clearly on dry land.

 

That winter, he’s spend the holidays with the Birkholtzes. He hadn’t returned home for  this past Thanksgiving, claiming that he couldn’t afford to miss the classes since American schools didn’t give a break for Canadian Thanksgiving. This year, though, he once again faced the prospect of Christmas without his family.

 

Justin doesn’t want that now, though. He doesn’t want to run away either.

 

“Let’s give it a shot, shall we?” he says.

 

Holster hums for the next hour, familiar, comforting tunes. He appears remarkably calm for a man about to visit some potentially less-than-friendly in-laws-to-be (or at least that’s how Justin views them, given the ring he’s stashed away back in their Boston apartment). It’s the sort of calm which only age can provide, and Justin thinks he never would have seen this version of Holster the first time they made the drive to Toronto. It’s not the only thing that’s changed.

 

Holster’s still as large and loud as ever, but he’s settled more into his body at age twenty-four than at twenty, when they’d first met. The beard lining his jaw has thickened and attached itself as a permanent fixture (the beard burn isn’t that bad, usually). His shoulders have broadened, his arms have freckled, and his presence is expansive. Everything about him—sounds, scent, physical body—pervades the compact space of the car until Justin can immerse himself in the sensation, like, dipping himself into a warm bath. Justin soaks in the mood, in his comfort, stolidly ignoring the discomfort to come. For now, he has Holster, and that is enough.

 

They pull into the driveway slowly, and Justin thinks to the first time he brought Holster home, how Holster had been seething with rage at the student-driver and how Justin had been torn between laughter at Holster’s absurd fury and genuine concern for those around them.  How his mother had warmly greeted Holster with open arms, and how Holster had slotted in so easily to their home, to his life.

 

“Hey,” says Holster. Grave blue eyes meet his own. “I love you.”

 

Justin breathes in, out, nods. “I love you too.”

 

They march up to the front door holding hands, remain that way as the door opens.

 

“Mom,” says Justin. He hasn’t seen her in nearly seven months, has barely even spoken to her over the phone. Her half-hour call to him two weeks ago to ask him to come home for the holidays marked their longest conversation since graduation.

 

“Justin,” she says, and pulls him into a stiff hug.

 

“Mrs. Oluransi,” says Holster, cautiously, as they pull apart. Neither of them moves to embrace, so instead, Justin’s mom leads them inside, where Justin and Holster settle in Justin’s room for the evening.

 

It had been a long drive, and by all rights, he should have been exhausted, yet somehow, at two am in the morning, Justin’s restless legs carry him into the kitchen, where he finds his mother, already sitting by herself on one of the stools. There are two mugs of tea, as if she’d somehow anticipated his arrival.

 

“Can’t sleep?” he says.

 

His mother looks askance, as if she hadn’t expected him to actually speak.

 

“No,” she says, takes a long draught from her tea. “No.”

 

“Me neither.”

 

They sit in silence for several minutes.

 

“I didn’t want this, you know,” she says, suddenly breaking the quiet. “This isn’t—I never wanted this between us.”

 

“What did you want then?” he asks, imploringly. “What could you possibly have wanted for me?”

 

“I wanted things to be easy for you, or as easy as they’d ever be,” she says. “Being with Adam…with a man, being gay or bisexual or whatever it is you say, that doesn’t seem easy.” She closes her eyes. “You always make things so hard for yourself.”

 

“Mom, being with Adam is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.” Her eyes fly open, connect with his steady gaze. “Maybe the whole bisexual isn’t the most straightforward path I could have taken, but Adam, he—he makes the rest of it simpler. School, life, waking up in the morning, all of it is better with him there. I don’t have to worry about coming home to an empty house after a long day, I just…he’s there. And I’ve never been surer of anything else in my life.”

 

“You love him.”

 

“I’m going to marry him.” It’s the first time he’s said those words aloud, even to himself.

 

His mother blinks. The crow’s feet lining her eyes crinkle. “When?” she asks softly.

 

He shrugs. “I haven’t asked him yet, but I know he’ll say yes. After that, I don’t know how long we’ll wait. A year, maybe two. Doesn’t matter.”

 

“Will you be able to get married in our church?”

 

A grimace tugs on his lips. “Mom, Adam’s Jewish. He’s not super religious or anything, but he wouldn’t marry in a church. He’s not going to convert either.” He eyes her carefully. Now is definitely not the time to mention the Jewish conversion classes he’s been attending, even though he hasn’t decided on anything yet. It’s just an option at this point, a thought which has stretched its tendrils, however casually, into reality. Either way, the topic of religion is sufficient fuel for a whole forest fire.

 

“Besides,” he says, “we already know we want to get married at Niagara Falls.”

 

She frowns. “You want everyone to get wet?”

 

He can’t help himself. A bubble of laughter bursts, spilling over until he has to clutch the kitchen counter for support. Her frown deepens.

 

“What’s so funny?”

 

He has to gasp for breath. “Of all the things…you’re worried about getting wet?”

 

She sets her hands on her hips. “Do you know how long it takes to do my hair? Even if we’re not under the falls, there’ll still be so much moisture.”

 

“We’ll get you a poncho with a hood then,” he says, before retreating beneath her stern glare. “All right, all right. We’ll make it work. Promise.”

 

The laughter dies, replaced by something far more tenuous and fragile. He thinks it might be peace.

 

“I need you to be there,” he says, and thinks, not just then, but now, tomorrow and the day after. He needs his mother, his father, his family. He loves the Birkholtzes but the Jewish cuisine (or at least the Ashkenazi Jewish version) seemed to have left all its spice back in Egypt several millennia ago so he needs to learn his mother’s jollof rice recipe to cook for himself, and he needs to ask his father about being a husband, and he needs the people who lovingly raised to be the ones to send him off into a different kind of love. He wants his old family even as he embraces his new one.

 

“I know, love,” she says. “We’ll be there.” She inhales sharply, bites her lip. “You know, it can be difficult to understand new things sometimes. And that’s not fair to you, I know, but I hope…I hope you understand why it might be hard.”

 

He gulps, his instinct to accept his mother’s offering warring with his righteous fury at her pronouncement. Like he’d told her a year ago, same-sex marriage had been legal in Canada for more than a decade. He’d grown up near gay neighbors, with a gay teacher in high school, surrounded by a culture which was, overall, pretty accepting. Sure, hockey teams and other boys hadn’t always used appropriate language, but these concepts shouldn’t have been _new_. Shouldn’t have been something to understand.

 

“I don’t need you to understand,” he says, voice clenching in his throat. “I just need you to accept.”

 

“It’s hard to accept what you don’t understand.”

 

“It’s what you’re asking me to do with the last year.” It comes out more sharply than intended.

 

His mother falters, bunches the fabric of her skirt in a fist. But then she exhales, and the corners of her mouth quirk up. “I guess you’re right.” A full smile now. “I’ve missed you, Justin.”

 

“I’ve missed you too,” he says, and it isn’t a lie. As angry as he’d been, he’d missed his parents.

 

“And we’ve missed Adam,” she adds.

 

“It’ll take him a while to forgive you,” he says, frankly.

 

“Hopefully a good breakfast in the morning might go a ways.”

 

Justin smiles, thinking of his partner. “You know what?” he says. “It just might.”

 

And the next morning, when Holster arrives at the breakfast table to find a steaming heap of eggs and bacon waiting before him, he turns to Justin and grabs his hand.

 

“Are we good?” he murmurs.

 

Justin swallows once, then nods. “For now, yeah. We’re good.”

 

Holster beams, and his sunny smile radiates outwards, touching all around him, including Justin’s mother.

 

“Mrs. Oluransi,” he says, “these eggs look simply lovely. Or, dare I say in this Christmas spirit,  divine.”

 

Justin watches his mother chuckle and roll her eyes, watches Holster stuff a mouthful of meat into his mouth without any hesitation, and an unexpected warmth suffuses his limbs, his chest. He thinks, no, _knows_ that it’s love, for his family, and for Holster, and for once, the two of those things don’t seem so far apart.

 

He knows that Holster, for all his size and noise and drama—he knows that Holster fits.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, thanks for reading!
> 
> I know that homophobia is something sensitive to write about, but it is very real, and much of the conversations I've included in here is based on experiences friends of mine have had (though I've been pretty lucky myself). I chose to make Ransom's family (or his mother at least) the less accepting ones because I wanted to focus this piece on Ransom (generally I find his POV easier to write) and it made sense to use his family. 
> 
> Although I think this has a pretty happy ending, if you need something to cheer you up, I've written several much happier Ransom/Holster things. Also feel free to talk to me at tumblr.com/tintinnabulation-of-the-bells.


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